


Lost Girls

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F, F/M, Post-Chosen, post-nfa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood will out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Girls

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Set Post-”Chosen”, and NFA by at least ten years. Mention of minor and major character death.

**Carbon**  
  
Nikki. . . .  
  
  
It seemed impossible that someone so innocent, so sweet, so  _perfect_  was any relation to  _me_ , you know? No matter how many times Robin said she had my eyes and my mouth--my mouth, his big, open smile, and heart—sometimes I'd wonder if she was a changeling.  
  
  
But I loved her; loved her till it felt like love of her would choke me dead. Still, there came a point, probably around the time Robin started teaching her Latin, that I realized we had nothing in common.   
  
  
And we never did have . . . until the day she killed a man.  
  
  
  
**Lithium**  
  
“We should stop, get some lunch.”  
  
  
I can see the reflection of her dark eyes in the passenger-side window. I know she's awake.  
  
  
“Silence is assent, and if you don't speak up, I guess we'll stop at Jack In The Box.”  
  
  
Nikki hates that place. Robin used to tease her that if she ever flunked a class, we'd eat there for a month. She'd make melodramatic gagging noises that turned into giggles, and I'd be fucking floored that my quiet egghead could be such a . . .  _kid_. . . .  
  
  
“Jack In The Box is fine, Mom,” Nikki says softly, closing her eyes.  
  
  
  
**Zinc**  
  
“Heyya, Nikster! Long time, no see!” Xander scoops Nikki up, ignoring how excited she's not.  
  
  
Uncle Xander is her favorite person, and normally she goes Pixie-Stix crazy when she sees him. Xander being Xander, he takes it all in stride, tucking her under his chin. Her fluffy corkscrew curls brush his face, which softens in a way that makes me wonder when the hell he and Dawn are gonna have some kids, and if they accept donations.  
  
  
Xander carries her into the Chapterhouse, chattering all the way about some stray furbag he caught. . . .  
  
  
Guess it's time to see Buffy.  
  
  
  
**Hydrogen**  
  
“You look awful.”  
  
  
There was a time I'd have kicked her ass on GP for that. Now, only thing I'm fighting is a smile. “Buffy Summers, queen of tact.”  
  
  
“As always.” Buffy leans on her office door and we stare at each other warily. We're . . . frienemies, you could say. Emphasis on the “frien”.  
  
  
“So . . . how on Earth did my nine year old goddaughter kill a  _grown man_?”   
  
  
“How do you think, B?” I can still see his broken body when I close my eyes.  _My baby_  . . . did that.  
  
  
I don't even realize I'm crying till Buffy's arms close around me.  
  
  
  
**Nitrogen**  
  
The New Council Chapterhouse is just like I remember: cold, imposing . . . wicked British.  
  
  
(Read: ridiculous, in the middle of Cleveland.)  
  
  
Been wandering the grounds for hours, trying to keep myself from finding Nikki, and demanding why,  _why_  had she hidden it from me. Better to stay out here and demand of myself, like I have for five shell-shocked, sleepless days,  _how could I have missed it_?  
  
  
My heart is going ninety miles an hour, and this time there's no B to wipe away my tears. Before I can make it to a bench, the world lurches, and greys out--  
  
  
  
**Fluorine**  
  
A cold, ungentle hand is slapping my face.  
  
  
“It is unwise to slumber in the snow.”  
  
  
I open my eyes, wait for the spinning to stop, and--  
  
  
It's not hard to place  _her_ : blue-blue eyes and matching hair--I've always wondered how far down all that blue goes--and a queen-bitch 'tude that would've given Cordelia Chase total envy.  
  
  
“If it isn't the God-king of the fucking Primordium.”  
  
  
A birdlike head-tilt. “I am also the 'Shaper of things',” she adds solemnly . . . Jesus, did the Overlord of Killjoy just make a  _funny_?  
  
  
The world starts lurching again.  
  
  
  
**Cobalt**  
  
I'm surprised the God-King is waiting for me outside Sickbay.  
  
  
She's never had more than two words to say to me, and her social skills haven't improved drastically over the past decade. (Though she's taken something that could almost be called a  _shine_  to B.   
  
  
Guess there's no accounting for taste.)  
  
  
“You are well.”  
  
  
Huh.  _Three_  words. “Is that a question or a pronouncement, your majesty?” I sway--thanks, exhaustion--and her hand clamps on my arm. Deep cobalt eyes take the measure of me.  
  
  
“Your species is flawed.”  
  
  
_Four words_. Plus she escorts me back to my suite.  
  
  
  
**Iron**  
  
_“Not that I have to tell_ you _this, but there's a difference between self-defense and murder.”_  
  
  
Grinning, I turn and fling myself into his arms. He swings me around, laughing a little. His eyes are the same: sad and soulful. Dunno how anyone could mistake him _for Angelus._  
  
  
“Ask her.”  
  
  
I shake my head. “I can't. I couldn't bear to know. . . .” to know my daughter is just like me. __  
  
  
His smile is sweet and pained, just like when he used to visit me in the Pen.  
  
  
“The truth is always unbearable, Faith. That's how you know you've heard it.”  
  
  
  
**Scandium**  
  
“Dawn Summers-Harris bade me tell you she will be keeping the child for tonight.”  
  
  
I'm groggy, and half-rested--don't even remember getting into bed, just the geeing and hawing of the world. The God-King's steadying hand my only constant. Then exhaustion kicked in like an angry mule.  
  
  
Now, she's sitting tailor-style at the foot of my bed, watching me, and for some reason, I wonder if she ever misses Angel.  
  
  
“Since when do you relay messages for Dawn?”  
  
  
One blue brow lifts haughtily. “I do as I choose.”  
  
  
I'm almost smiling as I fall asleep.  
  
  
  
**Beryllium**  
  
You are . . . life and breath. And, like all humans, weighed down by the values of the herd.   
  
  
You are a natural ruler, hobbled. Made small, skeins of curdled majesty unwound and rotting around you.  
  
  
But something trapped within me stirs in a vain attempt to express itself. Eats at my armor like acid, accepting this brief respite here as its only balm.  
  
  
“I. . . .”  _would be that which shudders, and groans, and kneels, supplicant at your feet. Would be your world_  “. . . am here, because it eases me, and cools me to be here.”   
  
  
You smile in your sleep.  
  
  
The stirring settles.


End file.
